CHAPTER 11
We get a motel room just outside of town in a place with a sign out front that says “PRISON AREA: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS.” It’s a horseshoe-shaped single story building painted the worst putrid green I’ve ever seen, every s**t-brown door fronted by a single parking spot. I rest my face against the glass and stare at the crowning jewel of this place: a boxy open-air room like a garage with its door up sits at the top of the horseshoe, breaking it directly in two. The open space holds the vending machines, a single drink dispenser, and a gray ice machine that would surely give me food poisoning.
I sigh and shove myself off the motel window. Just to be safe, we’d scoured Bubba’s yard, the house, too, but there were no indications that Blade had stored money there or anything
